


tomorrow will be kinder

by sunflowerbright



Series: Hotel California [16]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Depression, M/M, see further warnings in the notes, warning for blood and violence in this chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Grantaire is falling again, spinning towards the sea like Icarus with his wings all burned up, only this time the sun smiled and reached out to pull him up.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>or, the one with a nightmare and a familiar face</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING for: mentions and discussions of suicide and suicidal intent in this part (moreso than in the others). Quite a bit of blood in this chapter as well, though nothing overtly descriptive.

 

For once it is not Grantaire who wakes up Enjolras by accident, bathed in sweat from a nightmare, a scream stuck in his throat.

Instead, he is awoken by an arm suddenly slung around him, knocking a bit harder than it was probably meant to. He is thrown out of his pleasant haze of a dream, waking with a muffled sound of confusion.

“Sorry,” Enjolras’ voice slips through the night around them. It’s thick with fear. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Ss’okay. ‘R you mmkay?”

Enjolras presses himself flush against Grantaire, chest against back: it might just be his sleep-addled imagination, but Grantaire swears he can feel Enjolras’ heartbeat against his back, beating out an unsteady and fast pace. Too fast.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras lies, and Grantaire lifts a heavy arm to swat at the hip behind him.

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying,” Enjolras mumbles.

“Yeah?”

“I am fine.”

He moves to turn around, but Enjolras’ grip on him tightens and he can’t move.

“Nightmare?” he asks then, because unless explicitly told to leave it alone, he is not letting this go. The man behind him is all tense and… and terrified, almost. Grantaire suddenly desperately needs to know what he can do to make it better.

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, voice hoarse.

“Wanna tell me about it?”

“No.” The answer is said quickly, a rush of words tripping over each other.

“Okay,” Grantaire says, because he is not going to push, but he also lets the word hang in the air, inviting in. He doesn’t speak of something else, doesn’t try to change the subject. He doesn’t fall back asleep.

There’s silence for a little while, and then Enjolras presses a kiss against the nape of his neck.

His breathing is too fast as well, Grantaire notes. He still doesn’t say anything, not even when Enjolras mumbles something that sounds like _‘I love you’_ , against the sensitive skin there, curls moving slightly as he breathes air over them. He’s still silent, but then…

“I killed someone,” the words are not spilled out, like truths being ripped from the jaws of privacy, they’re slow and careful, like Enjolras has been thinking about this since he woke, has been contemplating and wondering and…

And decided to trust Grantaire with them.

“At the Barricade,” he goes on to say, when Grantaire doesn’t reply, because really, what the hell is there to say to that? _Me too,_ he could say. _Me too._

“Go on,” he whispers when Enjolras stops, and he realises maybe the other man is too frightened of revealing more. He shouldn’t be. He could… he could tell Grantaire anything, and he’d still love him.

A thought like that, in the wake of such a revelation should be terrifying. It’s not: it’s normal. It’s his life for the last hundred years.

“Maybe that is not the right phrase to use,” Enjolras says then. “I executed him. I did not want to, but it was necessary. As everyone say when they have to put a bandage on the seeping wound that is their hateful deeds.”

“The street by the Musain,” Grantaire says then, interrupting, because Enjolras is on a roll, is going down a dark alley that Grantaire usually frequents, the one that his mind drags him up and down on at least two times a day, and Grantaire will not let him. “It was winter, and it was night and there were three of them. It’s how I broke my nose, the first time. You might recall me sitting in the Café with a shiner big enough to impress Bahorel. The first one left the fight quickly. The second had to stop to pick up some of his teeth. I left the last bleeding in the snow, and I drank so much the following morning I could literally hear my liver begging me to stop.”

“He didn’t survive?” Enjolras whispers.

“No. I killed him.”

He turns around then, too quickly for Enjolras to stop him, or maybe he’s just ready for him to see him now.

Enjolras is not crying, but his eyes are glassy and his cheeks are too red, even in the darkness. He’s rumpled and wide-eyed, and afraid.

There are lots of things Grantaire could say to make this better, but they’d all be temporary, half-truths and lies like a tissue for a band-aid. Enjolras looks horribly broken though, and he cannot stand it. He has to say something. He has to do something. If he can.

“It’s okay,” he ends up saying, which is one of the lies he’d promised not to tell, but Enjolras smiles anyway, though he knows it as well.

And Grantaire makes a decision.

 

 

 

*

 

 

He’s in the bathroom building up courage, which isn’t easy when Enjolras is so… so close. So close and currently shaving away his stubble, because apparently Grantaire was still too much in shock after his ordeal to be trusted with a razor, what if his hand started shaking or slipped, it’s not a sensible risk, Grantaire, only he’s pretty sure it’s just an excuse for Enjolras to crowd as close as possible while they’re both shirtless and still slightly damp from the shower, and possibly to get kinky with knives. It’s all part of a very big, very evil plan to make him drop dead from sexual frustration, Grantaire is sure.

But for someone who doesn’t seem able to even grow a beard, Enjolras is surprisingly good at this. He’s being careful, very careful, eyes locked on his work in concentration, lips slightly parted like they always do when he’s completely concentrated on his task, and he’s so close, and completely doing this because he’s an evil bastard, because Grantaire has to sit very still for this to work and the last thing he wants to do when that face with that expression is so close, is _sit fucking still._

”Enjolras?” he finally says, when the other man is done with the shaving and has moved away to rinse off the razor in the sink.

”Yeah?” he’s so focused on his task that he doesn’t notice the wavering in Grantaire’s voice, or maybe it’s because he can’t see Grantaire’s face.

”I’m going to go to Javert’s old flat.”

The razor makes a loud noise as it hits the ceramic of the sink, rattling and sloshing in the water before it settles.

“ _What?”_

Grantaire swallows heavily. “I said, I’m going to go to Javert’s old flat.”

“And why on Earth would you do that?” Enjolras turns around, and for once his voice is not raised: instead he is looking at Grantaire with a kind of desperate anguish, and Grantaire realises that this is nothing new. That Enjolras is getting too used to fearing the worst, and then having the worst happen, because whatever he tries, Grantaire is a fool who is going to go and do whatever he pleases.

But he has always been reckless. It’s why he and Bahorel and Gavroche are such good friends. It’s why he and Eponine haven’t killed each other yet.

_And you’re reckless too_ , he thinks, looking at the man he loves. _You’re the most reckless person I know, in the ways that matter. You’re not one to talk._

“I want to figure out what happened to him,” Grantaire mumbles then, hating that he feels like he needs to defend his decisions, because they are _his_ decisions, but okay, yeah, they may be a little on the side of stupid this time around. “I want to know what he was thinking, what led him down that path…”

“He failed his test, and it drove him over the brink,” Enjolras snaps, harshly, and Grantaire looks away. “That’s what happened, Grantaire.”

“But don’t you think we could gain information from that? If we can re-trace his footsteps, we might learn more about the tests, we might know to look for them or avoid them or make sure that they don’t do the same to us that they did to him.”

Enjolras suddenly moves forward, quick as lightening, hovering over Grantaire again. “Do I need to remind you what happened last time you went there?”

Grantaire visibly deflates. “No, you don’t.”

There is silence for a little while, a tension as maybe Enjolras waits for him to say more. They’re both hesitating, not quite sure how to move forwards, because they’re not fighting for once, but they’re not dropping this subject either. It’s like navigating a mine-field.

Eventually Enjolras sits down on the low stool beside Grantaire, nudging him slightly to make room, sitting with his body and face turned towards the other man: Grantaire is still staring ahead, even as Enjolras places a hand on his arm.

“It’s not about that, is it?” he asks, voice low and soft and careful, and Grantaire wants to start yelling, wants to run out of the room and not have this conversation, not admit to these things. “It’s not about getting information on all of those things.”

“Maybe it is,” he ends up saying, because he _can’t_ say more.

“Grantaire…”

“He’s like me,” he finally gets out, because the words have been on the tip of his tongue for weeks now, maybe ever since Javert shot him, ready to fall out like dominoes being knocked over.

He can feel Enjolras tensing up and knows that a sharp reply has been bit off halfway to the tongue, that Enjolras wanted to deny and yell and bite, but he’s being patient and waiting instead.

_For Grantaire._

That’s almost more than he can handle.

“He’s just like me,” he continues. “I could have been him. So easily. What if I fail my test? Look at my aunt. Sometimes it’s… goddam hereditary.”

Enjolras actually opens his mouth at that, but whatever it is he wants to say, he stops himself first. It’s new. New and frightening, because Enjolras always has something to say, and practically every time it is something worth saying and worth listening to.

But he’s letting Grantaire speak now. In fact, he has always let Grantaire speak, and that realisation moves something in his chest. He’s not exactly sure what it is, and he’ll have to identify it later, because they are talking about something else right now.

But it is not necessarily a bad feeling.

“But I could have been him. Ended like him. In this life or the last one, either way.”

The words are bitter on his tongue, but he gets them out. The bathroom is all white, contrasts and sharp colours, no corners to hide in. It feels real to say it, and it makes him as giddy with relief as it makes him terrified. This is not their bedroom, where they lie close on the sheets, darkness obscuring the worst of it. In here, in the light of day, everything is clear.

“I just want to find out what happened to him. I _need_ to find out what happened to him.”

“You’re not going alone,” Enjolras says, a rush of air passing his lips: he’s probably desperate to say something after staying silent for so long (or, long for Enjolras anyway).

Grantaire finds his courage somewhere hidden deep within _(very deep. Pits of hell deep),_ and looks at Enjolras. “You’re not coming with me.”

Enjolras stares back. There is hurt flickering in his eyes. “You don’t want me to?” _You don’t want me._

_I don’t want you to see me like that._

The worst might happen. Anything could happen. And he’s not thinking of gun-fire and Enjolras having to sit, pale and drawn at his bedside as he tries to recover for the millionth time – this time he might not be so lucky. And… even if doubt still wells up in his chest like a sea of poison, he’s seen it enough times now, believes the truth of Enjolras’ words enough that should something like death or worse claim him completely, it would be a huge blow to the other man. It is terrifying, that his well-being affects someone like Enjolras so much. He needs more courage to face that thought.

He doesn’t have that kind of courage, so he ends up pushing it back. Because it’s still not guns and open wounds, it’s his aunt setting their house on fire because someone toyed with her until she fell over the brink, its Javert’s conflict, not just once, but twice, and in the first life there wasn’t even a test to push him over – or maybe that had been a sort of test, in itself.

But whatever he gets to face, if it’s just as bad… he doesn’t want Enjolras to see him like this. He is selfish enough to admit to the thought. There’s a light about it, now, when Enjolras looks at him, and Grantaire is terrified that that is going to go away, much as he thinks it is flames stroked mainly by illusions.

“You said yourself, it’s not safe,” he ends up saying then, because he cannot possibly spill out all of his thoughts to Enjolras, not thoughts of that. He’s already said too much. “And we… us and the others, we need you.” He remembers what Enjolras had told him earlier, rushed voice, ready to elaborate more later, when the rest of them were there as well. Grantaire had requested that Enjolras tell him what he knew now, because he is not certain that he will be there at the meeting. He has other things to see to. “You’re the one Ana-Maria pulled through, so you’re kind of a… grounding point.”

“We don’t know that,” Enjolras immediately says. “It could be any one of us.”

Grantaire smiles. “So like you to put the rest of us mere mortals among the angel above.”

“Don’t do that,” Enjolras’ voice is sharp, but Grantaire – for once – doesn’t look away.

“I won’t go alone if that’s what you want,” he says instead. “Not because you’re the boss of me, but because yeah, it is actually sensible to take someone with me.”

“I don’t think you should go at all,” Enjolras shifts closer. “But I know I can’t convince you not to.”

“Your breath is wasted on me,” Grantaire mumbles, eyes flickering down to Enjolras’ lips as he moves ever closer.

“Never,” Enjolras stops short just of kissing him. “What you said earlier… about Javert. About you. About you ending up like him.”

The words are rushed, skipped over, danced around like they are dangerous, a sharp edge of a razor, slip and your throat is cut. It takes a lot of trust to put a blade in someone’s had and bare your neck. It takes a lot of trust to say forbidden words and know that they will be kept secret.

Grantaire thinks he is probably as naïve and foolish as the rest of them, but he trusts Enjolras. He will always trust Enjolras. Even when he shouldn’t.

It is the best part of him, but it is still not enough, because he is just that low a creature. He feels something ugly curl in his chest.

“You want to know how high the risk of me offing myself is.”

Enjolras pulls back sharply as if Grantaire has slapped him, and one part of him thinks _good, this is how it is, see me for what I am_ , and the other part is screaming in anguish.

_See me._

It’s a slippery slope, because once he gets started, there is no stopping him: he has never learned how to put pressure on a wound to make it stop bleeding, and he has never learned to still his tongue when it is really necessary.

“What else did you think me waking up and deciding to walk in front of a firing squad was?”

He still regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, even before they hit Enjolras fully and the man pales, white as a sheet.

But it is too late now.

“Sorry for ruining your precious moment.” _Sorry for being me again._

“Why are you saying this?” for half a moment he thought he had robbed Enjolras of words completely – a rare curse. But now his Apollo just looks angry.

“I’m…” he’s wrong-footed, unsure, because he hadn’t even meant to say this, had only thought to further it because there was nothing else to do once it was out there.

“I’m still learning,” Enjolras continues, clearly trying to put a damper on his anger. He still looks pale and shaken though. “But I’m trying, and… I know you. I do. It’s not easy, at all, I will have you know. Figuring out your moods is like trying to predict the weather, and I am… I am okay with that. But some things I do know. And I do know that you are being flippant and talking harshly because this is something that hurts, but what is really tearing at you is something you are not saying.”

He almost reels back. “What do you mean?” he asks, because Enjolras is close again, leaning back, but _close_ now, maybe closer than he ever had before.

“I want you to be fucking honest with me, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, voice loud in the small room. “I want you to tell me what the hell you think I am going to do with the next of your hatred for that… that moment, and with the knowledge of how much you hate yourself and the world, except be fucking sad and terrified and… what do you think I would do? Punch you? Leave you?”

“Maybe that would be bett…”

“It would not be _better_ ,” Enjolras spits the words out. There is not enough room in here. Grantaire needs to get out. “I am sick and tired of having this argument over and over again.”

“Then stop having it.”

_“Grantaire…”_

“Sorry,” he blurts out then because he… he can learn too. “Fuck. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, chest heaving. He blows out air and visibly relaxes, before reaching out and taking Grantaire’s hand between his own.

“Maybe I am glorifying it too much,” he mumbles then. “We did die, I mean.”

“It’s alright,” Grantaire mumbles. It’s really not.

“No, it’s not,” Enjolras looks up at him. “You clearly… hate what you did.”

“I don’t, please…” he stops himself, searching for words. “I don’t… hate it. I’m just… I’m scared of it. It was my finest moment, in that life and this one, and it scares me.”

“Because it puts pressure on you, you think,” Enjolras continues for him, a question, trying to figure him out. As always. “Because I’ll start expecting things of you and you think you can’t live up to them.”

“I would do it again,” Grantaire says. “Even _I_ don’t doubt that. I would do it every time we came back, for the rest of eternity. I thought… I thought I’d made that clear.”

But he thought his feelings for Enjolras had always been clear as well. He thoughts a lot of things had been clear.

This is why he drinks. Because he has the world all figured out, and he hates the sight of it, and then Enjolras comes and turns it all on its head and makes no sense, and fuck, this is how _Enjolras_ must be feeling about _him_ and how did the two of them ever even happen?

“Then what is it?” Ah. Enjolras is still talking about that moment. He is still not a mind-reader who can correctly guess Grantaire’s every mood and whim. Grantaire needs to remember that.

And then he realises Enjolras’ question, and the air is suddenly too thin, his lungs too small, breath cut off with strangling thoughts and memories.

He had been a coward in that moment. He had been a hero. He’d finally stood up to something, believed in something. He had died rather than live without the man beside him.

He had won Enjolras’ love in that moment, and that moment defines every single aspect of the man Enjolras thinks himself so enamoured with.

It had been the finest moment of both of his lives, and he hates it like he hates nothing else in this world.

_(and contrary to popular belief, there is not many things Grantaire actually hates in this world. Aside from maybe himself)_

“I wasn’t me,” he says then, blurts out, words tripping like children running scared. “That wasn’t me,” fuck, fuck he doesn’t want Enjolras to _see_. “I wasn’t… you can’t keep looking at that, you can’t just remember and say that… it wasn’t me, Enjolras.”

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras’ grip on his hand tightens as he tries to pull away. “Grantaire…”

“Anyone could have done what I did,” he says then, and his voice breaks, because the murky water is welling up, is pulling him down, is betraying his thoughts and feelings to the outside world again. “Any one of us would have stood beside you. It just… it just fucking _happened_ to be me.”

“Is _that_ what you think?” Enjolras sounds shocked. “You think… no, I still don’t fucking follow. So what if anyone else would have done it? _You_ did it, Grantaire. You. I thought you disliked me. I thought you detested the cause. I _know_ you detested the cause. And yet you, not any of the others, _you_ still did that. For me. That is… that is terrifying and exhilarating, and it’s not… fuck, it’s not the reason you think I love you?”

Ah. Here we go.

Grantaire remains silent. He doesn’t look at Enjolras.

“ _Fuck_.”

“You made it very clear…” he turns his head to say – _you made it clear how much you value that moment. You made it clear exactly what you saw._

But then he is being kissed, is being overtaken, pulled close and held there, like Enjolras is desperate now, like he needs to show him something, and there’s teeth and noses bumping together, and it should have been awkward, it is awkward, only Enjolras seems fucking determined and Grantaire is falling again, spinning towards the sea like Icarus with his wings all burned up, only this time the sun smiled and reached out to pull him up.

And Grantaire burns.

Enjolras pulls away, eyes still closed, resting his forehead against Grantaire’s for a moment. His hands are grasping at Grantaire’s shoulders, a grip so tight he’s pretty sure he couldn’t get out of it if he wanted to try, like Enjolras is afraid he might turn to smoke and slip away at any second.

“You are a fool,” Enjolras tells him, but he doesn’t sound reproaching. “You do not see, do you? You really don’t.”

_Grantaire, you are incapable._

He flinches, and Enjolras pulls away.

“Grantaire,” he says, and his voice is soft like nothing else. Grantaire is not expecting that. He opens his eyes to look at him.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you when you were gone,” he continues. “That first time, when you disappeared because I did not weigh my words, because I was callous and forceful and did not think. At first I thought it was just guilt, at how harshly I had spoken to you. I wanted to apologise. And I still couldn’t stop. I missed you. I _loved_ you. And that was before I remembered. Do you understand?”

“No,” Grantaire says, because that has always been easier.

“Imagine this, then,” Enjolras eyes are distant, looking through him, lost somewhere else. “Imagine falling in love, and knowing that your feelings are returned, but also knowing that you have hurt the other person so much that you can hardly stand to look at yourself in the mirror. Imagine being confused, maybe even angry, because this is all happening in spite of yourself. Not because of the other person, but because… this simply doesn’t happen to you. And then imagine _remembering_ , like opening your eyes for the first time, like seeing the sun after years of darkness, and it’s that person… it’s _you_ , standing next to me. I do not wish to die, but I cannot think of a better way to do so, than by your side. Yours, Grantaire. Not anyone else willing to do so, even though it would be appreciated. It’s just you.”

Grantaire says nothing. He… he doesn’t have anything to say.

That’s not true, he has plenty to say, but he _can’t_. He just…

“Grantaire?”

“Give me a moment,” he gets out. At least he has stopped crying.

And then Enjolras leans forward again and presses his face into the place where Grantaire’s neck meets his shoulder, and it is warm and tickling and heavy, and it feels fucking amazing.

“Hey,” he mumbles, hand automatically reaching up to rest on his head.

“Hey,” Enjolras’ breath hits his skin, lips moving against his collarbone.

The sit like that for a little while, neither daring to break the tentative silence. Surprisingly, it is Grantaire who ends up growing restless.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” he keeps mumbling, because fuck. “I don’t… okay. Honesty, you said. Be honest. It is not away from the realm of possibilities that I may have… hopped into the Seine, at some point, if you had… if you were all gone and… but I can’t say that I would want… not now. Not now, Enjolras, I’m… but that’s why I need to figure it out, because I don’t want you to have to deal with all of my shit, so _I’m_ trying to deal. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire tightens his hand in his hair briefly, tugging lightly, in a way he knows Enjolras likes. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to emphasize his point, or just trying to give Enjolras another reason to stay. Maybe both. Maybe he’s always trying to do both. “But you’re not like him.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe you’re being too hard on him.”

“I really don’t think so.”

Grantaire can’t help but smile as he leans down to press a kiss to Enjolras head. The man currently in his arms makes a small noise and somehow pushes even closer, face still buried in his neck like it’s the best place to be.

It doesn’t feel quiet real, having him like this, the white of the bathroom tiles glaring at him, telling him he’s awake, Enjolras warmth telling him it is not a day-dream.

It doesn’t feel real, and yet he knows that it is.

“I’m going to go while you hold your meeting,” he says then, you know, just to be a total buffoon and destroy the quiet, lovely moment. “I’d like to… I’m going to Javert’s place then. Today.”

Enjolras pulls away from him. “No you’re not,” he says, rushed. “You’ll have to go alone.”

“I’m going with Gabriel,” he says. Okay, so he hasn’t asked the man, but he knows Enjolras doesn’t want him there at the meeting (yet) and that Gabriel is not going to say no to help.

“You trust Gabriel?”

“Don’t you?”

Enjolras hesitates. “I’m not sure.”

“I think that you do.”

Enjolras looks tired and vary as he looks at Grantaire again. “You are sure about this?”

_No_. “Yes.”

“Alright.”

Grantaire catches to lighten the mood. “Do I have your express permission, mother?”

It works, if only slightly. Enjolras’ smile is small, but it is there. “Please don’t ever call me mother again.”

“Sugar-plum.”

“Are we having this conversation _again?”_

“You’re ruining the mood, darling.”

“I can work with darling. But please no further.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says then, smile falling. “I’ll be fine. I promise you. I will be careful, I will do everything in my power to not get in trouble. And you will not let yourself be distracted.”

Enjolras looks like he is in pain. “It would be better if you were there.”

“I’d sit and be a nuisance.”

“ _I’m_ better when you are there.”

He reaches up to cradle Enjolras’ face in the palm of his hand, almost automatically, as if touching comes easily, and it should, it should be easy – he wonders why it cannot just always be like _this_ between them.

“You’re biased,” he tells him, and pulls him in for a kiss.

 

 

*

 

 

“I think a lot of us probably saw something like this coming.” The window to the left is open, curtains flowing gently in the wind. Enjolras’ voice is low, but everyone in the room can hear him clearly.

“We knew we couldn’t go on like this forever, and we knew that we would eventually have to do something about it. We can’t afford to be passive, not anymore. Our control over this situation is slipping away from us, but I think we all agree that we cannot let it. We’ve lost a lot – we cannot afford to lose anymore.”

“You want us to fight back.” Bahorel says. It’s not a question.

“I want us to have our lives back,” Enjolras stands tall. “I want us to take it back from the ones who thought they could so easily gain control. We have been slow to act because a part of us – of me, at least – felt almost gratitude. A second chance at life is nothing to scoff at, especially not a life offering new opportunities. But on the other side of the fence, this system offers only death. We are supposed to fight, without even knowing why and what for, without a choice in the matter. We are supposed to line up and die for someone we have never even met. Is that something you want to do? Is that something you wish for? We can delude ourselves into thinking that our lives are good, that we can continue in peace, maybe even that the second chance makes up for what we might have to sacrifice. But one day all the choices we think we have now, they will be taken from us, and if we don’t act now, we will be powerless to stop it later. We’ll be puppets on a string, because someone fancying themselves a higher power decided our time has come, and we will be too late.”

He stops for a moment, taking a deep breath.

“I am not saying we need to lead an all-out war. I’m not saying we should not be careful, and I am definitely not saying that we need to put our lives on hold, simply because there is this. But we do need to pick a side, and right now, my wishes fall to neither of the… masterminds of this damn plot. Right now, standing alone would be preferable. Standing with _you_. Both sides are toying with us, are using us as both hook and bait for something bigger, and we should not let ourselves be treated this way. I propose that we step outside of the treacherous paths that they have created, and try to find out what’s really going on. We can’t keep being under their thumb. We can’t afford to sit and wait. We can’t _allow_ them to make us sit and wait, to control us like this. Or at least, I won’t.”

“And I want to know how many of you are with me.”

 

 

*

 

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.”

“You don’t owe him anything.”

“I know.”

“Are you just saying ‘you know’, to get me to shut up?”

Grantaire smiles. “Yep.”

“Okay,” Gabriel shuffles his feet slightly, looking up at the door before them. “Do you want to go first, or?”

“Are you scared?” Grantaire asks, and it would be teasing, only he’s already walking forward, pushing open the door.

It is unlocked because the flat is still for sale, and they’d called the company trying to sell it, asking them to leave a key because they wanted to check it out. It is eerily quiet as they get inside, the place bare of most furniture, the windows open and blowing in cool air: that had probably been done in haste when the company had heard of potential buyers, in an attempt to let out the heavy air that had clung to it previously, after weeks of no-one going in or out. It still clings to the wall, like the shadow of abandonment. Grantaire wonders if Javert did the deed in one of these rooms, or if he was somewhere else. He’ll have to ask Fantine, later.

It is odd walking through the living-place of a man who is no longer, and even weirder because Grantaire did not know Javert, but he feels like he should have, feels like this is what he is here for now. It’s like walking through an oddly careless dream, white walls and high, empty shelves and a sofa that has seen better days, Gabriel a silent shadow walking behind him.

The flat is surprisingly big for just one person, and Grantaire is not sure exactly what Javert could afford as a police inspector, or how much time he even had to spend in this enormous place. The part of his brain that is pushing the reality of all of this away, is wondering if maybe they should buy it. There’d be room for at least half of them, and since they seem to be living in each other’s laps most of the time anyway, it could be a good call.

He wonders what the hell is wrong with him: he nearly died on the doorsteps outside. Now he’s wondering if he could live here.

He probably couldn’t. Enjolras would have a fit if he even suggested it.

Gabriel stays silent as they continue to walk, stopping here and there to look at something closer, following Grantaire as soon as he moves to the next room.

“If you’re thinking of stabbing me in the back – or shooting me – then seriously don’t. I’m in an odd mood today, and I might just shoot back.” Not that he has a gun. But he does have fists.

Gabriel snorts. “I wouldn’t dare.”

At those words, he turns around to look at the other man.

“Did Enjolras tell you to watch me like a hawk then?” he asks, defensively, but only slightly, because it is not Gabriel’s fault. He is only trying to help, out of guilt or a sense of morality, Grantaire isn’t sure. The man looks sheepish, and his question is answered.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Grantaire mumbles, reaching out to open the door before him, leading to another room – he’s guessing it’s the bedroom. “My own personal bodyguard, huh? It could be worse. It could be Eponine.”

“Eponine is a terrifying little thing,” Montparnasse says from his place on the bed, slowly bleeding out from a wound in his stomach.

_“Fuck!”_

Grantaire is by the man in a flash, yanking off his sweater to press it to the wound, Montparnasse looking at him with an odd quirk to his lips, an odd glint in his eyes.

It has been years, years since he has seen Montparnasse. He hadn’t even _thought_ of him, not really, not in a way that was comprehensible. He supposes he had thought that Montparnasse would be either dead or had joined up with Michael: Montparnasse would do that, would be swayed, would go the route that painted the cities red with blood. Or perhaps that was Ana-Maria as well. If she had not lain too much responsibility on him, he could have, would have gone with her as well, if she had reached him first.

But Grantaire had not thought about it, not even with his memories returned, seeing the man swish and sway through the streets of Nineteenth century Paris, almost as if it had been yesterday and not eons ago. He hadn’t known Montparnasse, not intimately like he knows him in this life (and boy, had they been intimate), but he had seen him around, had known to avoid him because knives flash in the dark and affections only last so long when you are starving, and is a devil to boot. So he had stayed away, in another life.

In this one, Montparnasse had not had the same edge. He had been younger, when they had met. Conflicted, confused, caught in the same system that was busy grinding Grantaire and Eponine into the dust as well. Lost and confused, and still terribly young. He’d been charming, though. He’d been all flirting and soft silk-scarves, and softer words, an edge to them that definitely wasn’t silk. He’d been standing under their window serenading them. He’d shared cigarettes (possibly stolen) and given Eponine her first knife and taught Grantaire how to break into a car.

He’d come into their life like a flash, and he’d left just as suddenly again, and his chapter had seemed over, so even after all of this, Grantaire hadn’t thought of him. And he knew Eponine hadn’t either: whether because she simply didn’t care, or because it all seemed so surreal, he wasn’t sure. Why, he wondered, was Montparnasse back? Were his ties really that close to them, or was it pure coincidence?

And why the hell was he currently bleeding out on Javert’s old bed?

“What the hell are you doing here?!”

“There is a lovely garden party down the road, I thought I’d pop by,” Montparnasse sneers, but then he bucks over a little, hissing in pain instead. He’s pale and the fight is leaving him, flowing out with the blood. Some of it on his shirt is already turning a darker colour: Grantaire wonders how long he’s been sitting here, not calling for help, slowly dying. He wonders if the older blood is even Montparnasse’s.

“Who did this to you?” Gabriel asks, standing vary in the corner.

“The Snakes got me,” Montparnasse says, and Grantaire is sure that sentence makes a lot of sense, if you are Montparnasse and therefore know what you are talking about.

“What the hell? No, forget it, I’m calling an ambulance.”

“ _Don’t_ , they’ll find my fucking hiding-place.”

“You are _bleeding to death_.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your definition of fine is worse than mine!”

Montparnasse reaches up and strokes a bloody hand down the side of Grantaire’s face. “Was that meant to rhyme, sweet-heart?”

Grantaire shakes him off, ignoring the sticky smear now on his cheek. “Stop it. You’ve lost too much blood, you’re getting lightheaded. Fuck, what happened to you?”

“I just told you.”

“Who is he?” Gabriel has moved closer now, hovering just near Grantaire, as if not wanting Montparnasse to hear them (which he still can, so that is ridiculous) or maybe so he can actually help Grantaire should the man on the bed suddenly decide that he is a threat. Not that Montparnasse can do much of anything: he looks weak as a kitten. But if there is one thing you never do, it is underestimate Montparnasse.

“His name is Montparnasse,” Grantaire says, when the thief before him doesn’t bother to comment further on the situation. “And he’s… well, he’s like us.”

“Like us?”

“Yes. He’s…”

“I don’t remember him,” Gabriel moves closer, and Montparnasse smiles, teeth barred.

“I remember _you_ , pretty boy.”

“He wasn’t exactly on the right side of the law,” Grantaire mumbles. “So again I ask – what the hell are you doing here?”

“I was looking for Javert,” Montparnasse says then, possibly because he is dying and… well, okay, Grantaire doesn’t want to admit it, because its co-dependent and weird, but the man looks happy to see him. As happy as Montparnasse ever is: which usually isn’t a lot when it comes to other people and not flowers or fancy clothes or anything else like that.

But he’d had a fondness for them, for him and Eponine and Gavroche, and even Azelma after she had kicked him in the shin after he got a bit too saucy. And Grantaire supposes someone you like, or used to like or whatever it is, someone who carved themselves a place in your miserable life, its better to die with them than die alone.

Because that’s what he’s doing: Montparnasse is dying.

“Javert. Right. Good luck finding him,” Grantaire mutters. His hands are bloody as well now, pressing against the wound. He wants to let go and call an ambulance, wants to keep on the pressure and yell for Gabriel to call an ambulance. But he’s scared of what Montparnasse might do, if he lets his attention slide for more than half a second. “Then who the hell attacked you?”

“The Snakes… Jethro and his ilk,” Montparnasse clarifies at their confused looks, though it doesn’t really clarify anything. “The… oh, do you have another silly name for them? It’s the bonkers people who have been running around picking us off like flies!”

“You mean Michael’s men?” Gabriel asks.

“No, not fucking Michael’s men,” Montparnasse finds the energy to yell, teeth clenched through the pain. “I’m talking about _Jethro_. The saviours, you know? The fanatic maniacs who want to kill us all.”

Grantaire is confused enough to turn around and stare at Gabriel, who merely shrugs.

“I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Montparnasse whispers, closing his eyes. “You really don’t know?”

“You think someone is trying to kill everyone that has to do with those two?” Grantaire turns back to his old friend (for lack of better word).

“I _know_ someone is trying to kill everyone that has to do with those two,” he shifts slightly, but not much, held in place by Grantaire’s hands and his own pain. He opens his eyes again, looking at him. “They killed your friend, the tall, dark one. Namer, or something.”

“He’s talking about Naveen,” Gabriel says, and Grantaire feels a whoosh of grief and panic swoop through him. _Naveen._

“That’s the fella,” Montparnasse agrees. “Or was, you know.”

“Hang on,” Gabriel says. “Someone is killing us all off, just because of that? Someone… they aren’t Recruits?”

“They’re fucking fanatics,” Montparnasse tiredly explains. The fight is leaving him again, the words getting harder to say. Yet his still saying them: Montparnasse, defying it all until his last breath. “They’re this group of… I don’t even know. They want rid of Ana-Maria and Michael both, and they think we’re all devil-spawn,” he grins at Grantaire. “Which might be true for _some_ of us.”

“It’s not just a two-way war,” Grantaire realises. There’s blood flowing over his hands, and he’s hardly noticing. He must look wild, and frustrated. Very frustrated.

But first and foremost wild. Blood on his face, on his clothes. On his hands.

On Enjolras’ hands. On all of their hands.

“This could be an even bigger problem,” Gabriel mumbles.

“You think?” Grantaire hisses. “If Enjolras and the others want to fight Ana-Maria and Michael, that’s one thing, but now someone unrelated is killing us as well? We can’t… fuck, they were the ones who attacked us, earlier. What if they have Cosette? She’ll be…”

She’d be dead.

“Sorry about your friend,” Montparnasse says, and doesn’t sound it, and Grantaire doesn’t know if he’s talking about Naveen or Cosette, and it doesn’t matter. His heart is trying to box its way out of his chest, escape from its cage, leave this place now rather than later, when the worst has happened.

When everyone else but him will be dead again.

Montparnasse’s teeth are pink with blood. Grantaire can’t see the wound: its deep, and he wonders if it’s a knife or a gun-shot wound, if it had been poisoned, if it had hit something it really shouldn’t. He wonders if whoever did it is dead now. If Montparnasse was alone when it happened, why he went to Javert’s, why he think Javert is still alive when he of course isn’t, Javert killed himself and can help no-one. There’s nothing left of the man, aside from empty rooms and bloody footsteps. Just like there will be nothing else but blood left after Montparnasse, if he doesn’t let them help him.

Grantaire wants to ask the other man (his old friend) all of these questions, want to plead and beg until he lets them help him, but he can’t.

“I’m calling Fantine,” Gabriel says then, and fuck, why hadn’t he thought of that before? Fantine can help, and Montparnasse won’t try to kill them for forcing him to a hospital.

“Too late,” he says, because Gabriel hasn’t noticed yet, how Montparnasse has closed his eyes and not opened them again.

How he won’t be opening them again.

There’s a loud crash from the living-room, and Grantaire jerks upright, forgetting about the blood and the wound and Montparnasse: he’s already storming into the room, and _dammit,_ he had promised to stay safe, to remain sensible, which is exactly what Gabriel is shouting as he runs after him. But there’s a body in there, another body of _someone he knew_ , and it seems easier to chase strange and potentially fatal noises than… than to fucking stay and stare at a corpse.

It’s just a cat, slipped in through the window and knocking over an old vase that was already crooked and worn and ready to burst. It lies in shattered pieces on the floor, the cat sitting beside it, looking up at him with large, guilty eyes.

And okay, so he _knows_ that cat. It’s the same cat that was at the old orphanage, the one Cosette used to live in.

It leans down and licks one paw, eyes never leaving his face. It doesn’t even look away from him, when there is a shuffling from the doorway into the bedroom, and Gabriel whirls around to see what it is.

There’s a chill down Grantaire’s back, as he turns slowly, staring in shock.

Montparnasse’s clothes are bloody and ruined, but his cheeks are coloured rose with the flush of blood flowing freely beneath the skin, and there is no sign of a wound.

“I’m telling you,” he says. “Dying doesn’t get any less tedious the second time around.”

 

 


	2. Fanart

lovelies Hath and Elisa drew some fanart for my fic, and I wanted to share:

 

 

 

 

 

Elisa drew me Naveen: [(original post) ](http://cupcabriel.tumblr.com/post/55100947305/i-was-married-i-had-a-child-of-six-a-boy-my)  


and when Hath asked me the colour of the cat for this part, I jokingly answered 'rainbow' before saying it was black - thus this happened: [(original post)](http://hathanta.tumblr.com/post/54999608915/so-um-this-is-a-completely-canon-scene-that-i)  


[ ](http://hathanta.tumblr.com/image/54999608915)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you to Martina, Jess and Hath for being wonderful people who makes my writing better just by being there for me, and being patient, good souls.
> 
> Sorry this is up later guys, writer's block hit me right after my graduation and I had to adjust to starting the new job and everything. There may also be more mistakes than usually, as I wanted to get it up and possibly didn't edit as carefully as I usually do. Hopefully things will go smoothly from now on - not that many parts to go before Hotel California is done!


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